


take my hand

by kathleenfergie



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 4B Finale, ? - Freeform, Dark One's Dagger, Depression, F/M, Oneshot, Post-Finale, The Dark One (Once Upon a Time)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4169127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathleenfergie/pseuds/kathleenfergie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>(take my whole life too.)</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>he wraps his arms around you each night and does not let go, not even when the black seeps from your skin and slices his open. not even when you bite down against his flesh and scream does he let you go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my hand

**Author's Note:**

> alrighty, here's another post-finale oneshot bc i wasn't too satisfied with the other one. plus i can't stop listening to the twenty one pilots cover of i can't help falling in love with you. this line has been captain swan-y in my head for probably a month. i think this is sort of different from other things i've written, but i actually really like it, so i hope you do too. if i had to say when this would be it is probably a month or two after emma becomes the dark one. she's v sad. i'm v sad. 
> 
> don't own anything.

_"are you afraid?"_  he asks that cold night in the woods, hands shaking against the dirt. you want to say  _no_. want to tell him everything would be  _fine, killian_. but you don't.

 _"yes,"_   you say instead, your blonde hair covering your eyes in that moment of weakness. you don't want him to look at you anymore, not with his ocean eyes and dark lashes; his loving gaze that tell you he _cares_ ,  _emma. he cares._

more than once you have asked him to kill you. have asked for him to sink his hook into your dead heart, growing black each moment that passes. it hurts, you tell him, it hurts too much. you have looked at your parents and their perfect, golden son and asked him to kill you. looked at your own son's face that sharpened more and more every day, and asked him to make it all stop.

he says no each time, and will continue to say no. he stops wearing the hook so that you will not be tempted to rip it from his arm and do it yourself. he wraps his arms around you each night and does not let go, not even when the black seeps from your skin and slices his open. not even when you bite down against his flesh and scream does he let you go.

you heal the wounds you cause every morning when he brings you coffee. you stare into the mug until it goes cold. you don't want to add to the the constant burn you feel in your throat. he leaves you alone in the deserted cabin to go check on his ship ( _henry_ ) and to catch up on the gossip of storybrooke ( _he's asking regina for help_ ).

you glare at the hearth for hours, but have to stop yourself once your thoughts make you angry enough to set the entire cabin on fire. you go into the forest and knock down trees when you are angry. you feel like a giant, but you do not feel good.

only when your hands are bloody and your hair sticks to your sweaty forehead do you come back to the cabin. you find him at the table, brooding. he perks up at the sight of you but you have known him long enough to see that it is an act. he is tired. so are you. tired of all the magic inside you burning to get out.

he bandages your hands and wipes your forehead clean. you sit in the small shower stall for too long, the water no longer warm as it beats down on your head. he does not come to get you, he knows that you will come back to him eventually.

it hasn't rained in weeks and you miss the scent of wet leaves, the breeze carrying the forest into your lungs and the cold chill into your bones. these days that chill is there because you force yourself to feel it.

if you didn't, you would have killed him by now. let the burning take over and killed all of them.

you will not speak to anyone but him, only because you fear hurting them more. he would be almost glad to die, you know. you would not forgive yourself if you crushed the hearts of the bright-eyed. if you ripped out _his_ heart it would be almost poetic; you would laugh and stop feeling. you would hole yourself up in your dark cabin until the next one came and shoved the crooked blade into you.

you wonder if you could make someone do it sooner than later. you want to die, more than anything. more than you want to love again. love him, because he loves you _so much_. it almost seems impossible after all he has been through. you want to be able to touch him without leaving burns behind, without marking him further.

you grow your nails out like talons, a warning. he loves you no less when they dig trenches in his hips. when you scream he does not muffle the sound, he lets you leave a fiery path, your banshee cry echoed into the night. when you dream of your loved ones dead and wake to your hands around his scruffy throat, he kisses your hot palms and tugs your head toward his chest.

you have always been strong, but now you leave dents in chairs and camper mugs. when you walk storybrooke at night, a shadow, you enter the diner and leave your handprints in the counter, the door frame, and your booth. he has seen them, you know, but he will say nothing.

he still teases you, but he is too afraid of your anger now to say anything too close to home. he says nothing when you chop your golden locks to your collarbone, when you scrub the dirt from your face each day. your hair grows to your waist in the night and you do not cut it again. you imagine how your mother would style it if you were the princess she wanted you to be.

you break the ward on regina's vault one day and immerse yourself in every script. you read her diary even though you shouldn't, but you learn more about yourself (the _dark one_ ) this way. you learn what your power is really like. it's awful, you already know that, and bury the diary back where you found it.

regina shows up hours later, calmly watching you, saying nothing. you want her to yell at you, to call you a child. you want fireballs and harsh words, but she gives you none of that. only gives you your dagger (secretly you'd thought _he_ had it), placing it into your sharp, fiery hands.

 _"are you coming home anytime soon?"_  she asks you quietly.

 _"no,"_  you tell her and want to be lying. you aren't though, and it hurts. the answer pulls at your veins and twists your lungs.  _"are you happy?"_

she wants to lie, too, you can tell. but she doesn't.

_"i can't afford happiness right now."_

he doesn't ask where you've been when you crawl into bed, the thick quilts drowning you. you take your boots off at the door but you're too tired and sad to peel the clothing from your body, so he does it for you, his calloused hands brushing stray hairs off your cheek every so often.

he kisses down the length of your spine and you wish it caused shivers, but it doesn't.

 _"i love you,"_  he breathes into the curve of your hip and you laugh softly.

_"you shouldn't."_

but he does. he loves you and beneath the fire in your hands and the cold ache in your heart, you are glad for it.

_fin._


End file.
